


Night Games

by ravenromance27



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe, Angst and Humor, Drama, Immortals, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 23:08:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3506189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenromance27/pseuds/ravenromance27
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. He woke to a life filled with death. He existed in a world filled with blood. And all that he could remember of the past is a tattoo no one could read and a key that hung from around his neck. What would an immortal risk to discover a past that has plagued him for centuries? And what would a former Captain of Immortal Death Dealers do to find the one that holds all the answers?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bloodstained Nights

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: SNK is not mine. There's no way even my own questionable sanity could produce something as convoluted as this.
> 
> AUTHORS NOTE: Now, I don't know if I mentioned this before, but I used to write about darker, more melancholic stuff because the first fandom I ever dared to write for was—well…"Tw….ght". Get it? And because I adored the writings of a certain Miss that rhymes with "Nice"—well, let's just say my writings were more like overwrought horrors of narration.
> 
> Now, I don't know why I cannot let this piece go. This was my very first story and as such it holds a great deal of significance for me. During various times, at certain points of writing this tale I found myself amused, wary, weary and very much attached to the tale. Often times though, I think I got lost but I've always believed that I would find the time to review what I have written and see if there is room for me to fix the errant and stray thoughts that invade what should have been a smoothly flowing story.
> 
> I've tried remaking it countless times—downright ignored it for years but its persistent I tell you. It wants to be finished—I don't think it will ever forgive me if I don't. So, here it is—my final attempt at using the words I first wove together nearly ten years ago.
> 
> I really don't know how much magic is still left behind—I'm just hoping there's enough to make someone want to read it.
> 
> This is my first attempt to write for this fandom and yes, you can be as snarky in your comment as much as you wish. I'd appreciate it actually.

**PROLOGUE**

**Bloodstained Nights**

_**"...For Mercy has a human heart,** _

_**Pity a human form,** _

_**And Love , the human form divine;** _

_**and Peace, the human dress.** _

 

_**Cruelty has a Human Heart,** _

_**and Jealousy a Human face;** _

_**Terror the Human Form Divine** _

_**and Secrecy the Human Dress..."** _

 

_\- William Blake, Songs of Experience_

* * *

 

**Present, London, England...1837**

_The hunger is riding him…strong and fervent as when he had felt for the first time… The undeniable…the unceasing pangs…the insistent stirrings that marked his passage between slumber and awareness…that exact moment when he would open his eyes and feel the seductive thrumming of the night like an unnamed symphony playing in his veins and he would be helpless once more against the siren call of those that dwell in the Savage Garden…_

_His hand trembled slightly…concealed beneath the fall of priceless, black lace that hid seemingly fragile wrists and fingers whose nails lengthened into crystalline talons... sensitive, delicate fingers clenching and flexing... already feeling the desperation for the feel of soft, warm yielding flesh…of fevered skin waiting to be pierced, and savaged and torn apart._

_There…a familiar and eagerly anticipated scent…the perfume of fresh prey…the unmistakable bouquet of someone tainted with the exquisite markings of sin…_

_The night is calling and the hunt is about to begin…_

_A few minutes of subtle flirtation and whispered titillating conversation in shadowed corners…a careful orchestration of aloofness and passivity and coquettishness…all masterfully done so that he could arrive at this point…and he here was, following slowly the hulking figure in front of him as he was led down the darkened alleys on the seedier parts of London…his step sure and swift and silent, never losing sight of his prey…a large hand clasped around his own smaller one, unaware and unmindful of the sharp claws that lie a mere hairsbreadth away from its vulnerable wrist._

_As always his shell served as the perfect lure. And oftentimes as he hunted, the prey that takes his lure were gifted with beauty themselves, like this one, a vigorous man at the height of life, gifted with the sable colored hair and warm blue eyes. Witty and living in the midst of the privileged echelons, this night's prey was reared from the finest English bloodstock…but that is not all there was to him. Oh no...Certainly it played the part in his suitability as a potential prey…but the reasons that made him so suitable were none of those things._

_A prey that satisfies his own peculiar and distinct palate must be one whose heart is blacker than a raven's wing and more poisoned than a witch's brew—a true connoisseur of the darkest human nature. This one, a minor lord of the realm and third in line for some obscure title in particular, made sport out of forcing himself on little boys. It was no surprise that this deprived child of the nobility gave in to the titillation he offered, the subtle challenge and all too willing innocence that he so convincingly portrayed. A warm, rosy blush suffused his beautiful face, his cheekbones stained with the unmistakable sheen that could be mistaken for the flush of an innocent youth held in the throes of a lover's impassioned embrace. A whispered word with his deep, cold voice; a heated glance from dark smoldering eyes and a shy retreat always seemed to guarantee him a willing prey. Is it any wonder that this corrupt lord found him irresistible?_

_Having to hold back his baser nature for some weeks, the thought of finally slaking off his thirst was making him giddy. Even he couldn't hide completely the unholy gleam that burned behind his jeweled eyes, though he was still cautious enough never to look at people directly, instead, he gazed at them from beneath the fall of his thick ebony lashes, making his gaze even more alluring. He could smell the animalistic excitement in the faint sweat that tainted his prey and he licked his lips in anticipation._

_He could feel the faint heat that is already suffusing his cheeks, the tell-tale gush of saliva flooding his mouth, his tongue eagerly swiping at his lips in unconscious excitement...already the thrill of taking in the warmth of another's living essence is drugging his mind with the images of unbridled pleasure._

_And yet, throughout this anticipation of sensory overload, he has kept enough self possession to ensure that his exterior remained poised. With the exception of the rosy tint that painted his cheeks, and the veiled fire in his gaze there was no sign of the hunger that raged within him. His countenance remained aloof, divorced from the happenings around him—it was as if he was somewhere else and not there in the boundaries that marked the edge where the dregs of civilized society roam freely._

_The creature that led him suddenly turned at a corner and pinned him to a nearby wall startling him…warm, trembling hands plunging into the silken mass of his hair, letting the cool silken locks slide over them like bronzed moonlight as his fingers traced patterns of desire on his nape. Eager hands gripped his snow-white cravat, tearing the fragile cloth in the man's haste to have him bared to those fevered eyes, pulling at his coat and ripping his linen shirt until one snowy shoulder was exposed to the chill of the night air._

_Warm eager lips tried to catch his but he evaded smoothly, placing his own against the warmth of his captors neck, nuzzling and biting until he heard the telltale moan. He quickly parted his lips, baring his fangs and brought it down swiftly against the exposed flesh, ripping the yielding skin and allowed the hot gush of arterial blood to flood his mouth and quench his never-ending thirst even as the man in his arms jerked with a strong jolt enough to dislodge anyone else's embrace. Anyone else that wasn't him, of course._

_A strangled breath caught in someone's throat…a muffled wheezing gasp…another brief, last minute struggle and the blushing youth now held in the cage of a pair of strong slim arms, a willing silent captive. One of his frail hands clasped delicately around the side of the hunched figures neck, seemingly soothing the creatures heaving breath as his lips fastened on the other side of the man's neck, his face concealed to all that passes by as he gently nuzzled against the warmth he found there._

_His eyes were half closed, glazed over by the drugging sensation of drinking, finally after so long, in the life-essence of another…he realized belatedly that he was almost purring…drunk on the near-forgotten pleasure of partaking in the rich rewards of this forbidden hunt._

_People passed by, glancing at this scene quickly before turning away just as fast. The sight wasn't all that unfamiliar…a man settling his business with any of the many nighthawks that plied their trade in the shadows of London. Perhaps this one was simply in too much of a rush to even observe the propriety of getting a room and simply took what he paid for in the covered anonymity of an alley._

_And yet, if only the human traffic that ebbed and pulsed around that darkened corner paused for a minute more they would've noticed that the embracing lovers were both not the traditional sort. The smaller of the two, though undeniably beautiful, was not female. And though this was not an unheard of case, there was something quite odd about their pose._

_The younger of the two seemed to be pinned by the huge hulking form of the other. A closer look would've revealed that instead of an impassioned hold of a not-so innocent lover, it was a hand with bloodstained talons that was clasped around the man's neck. The boy that nuzzled against the older figure's neck had its mouth open, blood staining the corners of his thin lips as he continued his rabid suckling._

_Many minutes passed and then there was blessed silence, the sight of the entwined lovers forgotten in light of more important sights and matters. Then the night was once more disturbed by the staccato sounds of well-shod feet hitting the cobblestone paths. An elegantly arrayed young man with dark, short gleaming hair and elegant, entirely black evening clothes strolled out from the shadows seemingly born from it._

_The young gentleman's face was concealed under the brim of a top hat, showing only a faint smile on his handsome face and an unholy glow in his gem like eyes. He whistled a happy tune as he walked to nearby mansion. There was nothing to indicate, at first glance, to reveal that this was the same youth that mere moments ago was locked in a less than innocent embrace. However a more discerning eye might see the unmistakable mark left by his recent episode—the unmistakable crimson hue that taints his usually pale lips. With a sensuous lick, he cleaned away the final evidence of his recent repast before he entered the brilliantly lit ballroom._

_The night was young...and the hunt has scarcely begun…time for the next prey to be hunted down…_

* * *

 

_**I go by many names…many titles…how and why I came to possess them escapes me…** _

_**My memories have waned and faded over the long passage of time…** _

_**But slowly, slowly, I am gaining answers to the questions that have been plaguing me…** _

_**It's only a matter of time.** _

_**This is the tale of my many lives…** _

_**Yes, you read it right…** _

_**Many lives…** _

_**Here is where it all started...or at least where I wish for you to start...** _

* * *

 

**LEVI**

**Past, Romania in the year 1600…**

 

_**Blood…** _

From the moment I first drew breath and witnessed the world, that was all I ever knew…

_**Black and red…** _

Silvery hues in the light of the waning moon…pallid ivory stained by unforgiving ebony streaks that shimmered even in the pale illumination of the quicksilver gleam of dusk… they were the first colors I have memory of…snatches of images from a world painted in garish, glaring hues that seemed to characterized my entire existence…

_**Death…** _

Its undeniable presence…the reality of it was the only truth that pervaded my world…I was born of it…from it…and for it…and for the longest time I was content for my reason for being…I didn't know how I came to be in this new world…or where I was before waking…or even who I was…

All I had to go by was the certainty that seeing blood—being practically bathed in it—that was not something new for me…how I knew that would come to me later…but for now…the knowledge that it was familiar was enough to sustain me.

_**Be strong…Fight…Rely on no one…** _

These were the first words to ever come out of my lips…they are still the only words whose meaning has never been proven false…everything else I have learned…every utterance spoken by my sinful lips and mind has either been cleverly spoken lie or tools for manipulation…I have learned early on to excel at both…but the drive—the conviction to gain strength, to battle and to be independent held true…

_**Conquest…Hunt…Annihilate…** _

Hunting prey was the game I excelled in…the only game that made the long interminable days go by a little faster. I've dabbled in many forms of entertaining myself over the endless nights—everything from learning how to manipulate those around me as an exercise for my mental faculties, one I took obscene pleasure in concocting, if only to extract the most morbid and tragic of results to outrightly putting myself at risk just to feel that rush—that unfathomable rush that came from knowing just one miscalculation would end it all...everyone and everything else exists simply as pieces—pawns on my varied and extensive game board…and when the need for physical stimulation comes into play my body has the hunt that every creature given the Dark Gift participates in…I found to my eternal delight that it is both excruciatingly fun humiliating fledglings and satisfying for my appetites…

_**I am a killer born…** _

It is my one task…one purpose in life…The one certainty I've never questioned. No matter what name I bear or circumstance I find myself in—I knew that fact to run truer than even the crimson hue of the blood flowing in my veins…I exist to kill…

To kill what seemed an immaterial query…I knew what I was created for—raised and trained for—Death. That requires no clarification, merely a list of potential prey and targets. What I was before I joined the ones I call brethren might still be an empty void inside my head, but the reality and ease with which I deal with death and dying tells me I was never a saint.

I have a code that I live it—a rule of law for how I live and act. though I freely admit that I do not fall prey to the moral dilemma that burdened a few of our kind…so many of them feel the faintest traces of shame whenever they face the need to hunt, burdened by the fact that they kill to live, never thinking that every other creature that exists do so by ending the life of another. I find this feature amongst fledglings a distasteful weakness that comes from being liberated from mortal confines…that they were foolish enough to feel guilt for surviving, for existing…that's more troublesome than it's worth. Especially when the bloody hypocrites still kill why insisting they do it because they're compelled by their curse.

_**A curse…** _

That's what they try to call it—justifying those that revel in the killings like rabid dogs and those that suffer from culpability more deceitful than a whore's smile. I don't see the existence of our kind as a curse nor did I perform the hunt like some sport… competing with others like me for the blood of mortals like lowly wolves after cattle…I hunted simply to feed and hone skills that has helped me survive the passing years and prowled the realms of mortals because doing so pleased me…

The only thing that I actively avoided was confronting innocence. I loathed them like the light of the sun…nothing could rouse my fury more than the presence of an innocent mortal in the arms of my kindred…played like some hapless toy…strung along like a time-bound marionette…

Let me make it clear that it is not because I pitied the weak creatures or because I felt some hypocritical sense of justice…it was simply that their existence incensed me…their blind notion that they are more worthy…more deserving simply because they were untainted by the spell of the night…because they can escape the curse of being born in the Savage Garden. Their very blindness ignites my enmity.

It infuriates me to be accosted by innocents. For them, a quick death was not an act of revulsion—I do not allow personal feelings to get in the way of getting the job done. Death for an innocent was done as quickly as possible—not because I was compassionate…it was because above all else, I am an efficient weapon… their death is a chore dealt with in the most expedient manner. I am after all the best at what I do, the best that there ever will be…

I have had no other longings or wants save for the life essence that fulfills me...no desire unknown nor any hunger left unsatisfied...I fear no one and hailed no one and nothing as my master. I was a law onto myself and recognized no power save my own. If there was something in the world that intrigues me, it is only the faint inkling of wanting the truth of where I am from and how I came to be. Not knowing didn't bother me unduly and I was prepared to wait as long as possible to find or not find the answers I sought.

Beloved by nobles and feared amongst the lowly fledglings that quivered and stuttered to do my bidding. I had the entire Immortal world in my grasp. I had everything my heart desired...there was nothing they could've or would've denied me. I had every I everything any immortal could have wanted and more. Or at least that was I thought…

There was no challenge left unconquered, no satisfaction unrequited in my immortal existence and yet through it all I have suddenly grown bored...life offered no thrills anymore. I wanted more from my Immortal Life. I needed more from the nights than it has yielded to me thus far. And so I sought the very thing that would destroy me. I sought to fulfill the impossible.

The day they told me to seek out and fulfill a single, insignificant task was the day I began to change. It should have been insignificant chore if I hadn't been so affected by what I did and saw back then.

_**But I was.** _

That was the first time I tasted defeat. The first time I tasted pain. It was a lesson I learned all too well. After that nothing again was ever the same. I was their Dark Captain...fearless leader of the Death Dealers…feared and admired by every Immortal. And I wanted no part of them. Not after that one incident that changed everything for me.

Many arguments broke out after my change of heart. Many moons they waged arguments and threats of war but I had no time for them. I had only time for my own needs...my own thoughts...my own darkness finally consuming me.

In the end I chose banishment over continuing...despite the many pleas and threats of the Council. None of it held sway over my decision. And though in the Coven's eyes I was theirs to cajole and tempt into ruling, to me they were as useless and annoying as buzzing gnats upon a rotting corpse. Words flowed from many lips, spoken by many tongues, promising me everything under the red moon and the hell below—save the very heavens itself—but I was deaf to it all.

I do wish they had listened to me. But they did not. And so now they wait, hoping still that I would change my mind and see how important I was to the Coven.

Pity that they couldn't see that they weren't that important in mine. All that mattered to me was finding the answer to the questions I have long ignored. All that mattered to me was finding out who I was before I came to belong to the night…All that mattered was finding out why I found it necessary to write a name no one could read to be permanently branded on my body.


	2. Aftermath of the Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A servant sees, watches and learns. A servant to a Death Dealer sees, watches, learns and tries to survive the night.

**Aftermath of the Hunt**

**_Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong._ **

**_No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it._ **

_Terry Pratchett_

* * *

 

**Present, London, 1837**

**LEVI**

_This is my reality now…my world…the world where I chose to exist after I turned my back on my right to rule over the Council that gave birth to my being. I chose to hunt alone, instead of having the usual retinue of servants that should've done the hunting and scouting for me. I gave up all but the most meager trappings of my former position. For some reason unfathomable to no one but myself, the Council refused to let me continue my existence in a manner unbefitting my state of mind. They argued loudly that exile or not, I am not allowed to live in a hovel. I chose to ignore their decree. If they wish to provide me a domicile—be it hovel or palace—I doubt if it would've made any difference to me. I was not seeking a way of life. I was barely existing as it was. All that consumed my mind was the relentless hunt for answers that has thus far eluded me._

_Nearly two centuries have passed since then. The Council still waits for my decision, whether this would be the night I would finally take back the reins of rule or stay in my self-imposed exile. Every fortnight they sent an emissary to my door and every next day they receive my reply in a small ornate snuff box. The Council once stooped to ambushing me in the midst of a hunt to reprimand me for reducing messengers into ashes. They never repeated that same mistake._

_And yet the emissaries still arrive promptly at my door, patiently waiting for the answer they hope would be forthcoming. After the first few hundred emissaries, I have stopped counting. I also stopped immolating them. I simply ignored them and in time, they too, went away. Now they sent me mortal emissaries, hoping that I would be tempted by the feast they are offering. That's when I started hunting from the noble houses of the aristocracy. Mortals still operate under the rule of their mortal society. A lowly messenger can never hope to touch me while I lie in the very bosom of the privileged._

_I know that my actions are temporary measures at best. I know this well enough. Just as I know that the Council would soon formulate yet another method to elicit a response from my own lips. But it was all for naught. I still have no answer for them. I don't have any answers for them. I have none for them. After all, I have none even for myself. They could send the devil himself to my door and unless he has what I desire I might be tempted to ignore or destroy him just I have done to the others in the past. None of the things they want matters to me and the sooner they understood that, the sooner their losses would be minimized. Until then, he could use the provided cannon fodder for free training._

* * *

 

The servant opened the door before he even had the need for it. This service was one of the many things he has taken for granted since the day the Council of Elders forced their exiled Captain to stay in this mansion. The servant arrived here, delivered along with all the other necessities-accouterments of a life away from home—furniture, clothes, carriages and clothing, gold and jewels from the four corners of the world-illusory trappings of wealth that they deemed only suitable. Material wealth accorded a man in his station in life. The servant that provided for him day and night served just as one more furnishing in his hall…

The mansion was no hollow box that concealed its true purpose like so many other Immortals domain. The mansion was not a prop, a front for what lies beneath its floor. The rooms above were completely furnished, albeit to a lesser degree of opulence than the suite rooms at the catacombs. Out of habit, he began shedding his evening clothes the moment his well-shod feet hit the polished marble floors of his well appointed prison.

As expected, the servant was there, scrambling to pick up every stray item that he carelessly tossed over his shoulder, uncaring if the child diligently following him could actually see where it would land as the house was never fully lit. With only the moonlight pouring out of huge vaulted windows and arches aiding his descent, he spared no sympathy for the difficulty of the chore. He had none to spare.

In the cavernous halls of the old catacombs, he found the ingenious water work system that the engineers he had hired had created. It supplied the catacombs with water enough to fill a small pool where he would take his bath before resting until he rose the next night.

Stripping off the last garments from his body, leaving behind only a delicate chain where a tiny glittering pendant winked in the pale light, he took an assessing look at the crystal clear pool as it reflected his flawless, sinewy length. The eons have barely left any trace on his ageless body save for his mysterious tattoo…it was the same as it was the first time the Elders held the miracle of his creation. The black pool was an excellent foil against his brilliant, soft illumination…mirroring skin whiter than the finest alabaster.

He stood still and wondered anew at the bitter irony that even he would be apt to make the mistake that he was a statue placed in front of a reflective pool. There was barely any visible mark on him…nothing to note that he has been alive for far longer than most civilizations in the world. His misty colored eyes traveled over his smooth, unblemished shell, noting the allure of his physical form with no outward sign of pleasure or pride. The body was simply another tool in his vast arsenal of weapons. Truth be told, it was his weakest weapon, though, ultimately the most tempting to the mortals that flocked to his side…drawn as if called by some irresistible siren song.

His gaze fell on his hands and he raised them to the faint flickering lamp light to better see the glass-like talons that were stained with his last kill's blood. They marred the shining surface, making it difficult to explain to curious mortals their cause if they should be impertinent enough to ask but none had dared. He has learned early on that there still resides in mortals a visceral instinct against danger. They stayed away from him whenever he displayed the slightest hint of aloofness—faintest whisper of his true nature proved enough to keep even the most formidable of them at bay.

But that was not the reason he chose to retreat to his lair, instead of giving in to the call of the night. If he was forced to explain, he could say it was dismay and distaste that sent him back. He found the hunt boring, tedious…a chore more than the sport he had thought it would be. It didn't distract him; it made him even tenser, restless like a caged beast that has grown bored and filled with dangerous ennui. Worse still, the prey disgusted him. He could still recall the rotting, foul stench of the docks…the grimy edge of the civilized world where he was situated…but it wasn't that particular smell that caused his repugnance. It was the taint of his prey's personality. The man was born to privilege but housed a soul more depraved than the lowest vermin that infested the slums.

His eyes were half-concealed by his lashes but even that couldn't hide the burning hatred he felt for the human waste that he had recently disposed of. As he drunk his victim's life essence, his mind was flooded by the images of his past victims…the lives he took…the innocent blood he spilled in the name of lust…the scars he left on so many young hearts…the screams that fed his carnal wants even as he slaked it in the pool of tainted innocence.

The torturous nightmares made his hands clench and he recalled how the iniquitous scoundrel caressed his tresses, smelling the fragrant mass like some rabid animal. He turned away in revulsion, hands trembling as he undid the velvet knot that held it back. Hunting prey requires some kind of contact and there were little about himself that he found worth keeping from the clutches of the rabble he associates with but touching his bare skin was not one of them—least of all their touch on his hair and his nape. The touch of his recent kill on the short, cropped mane he felt like his privacy was breached. The bath was more than just for the stench of the docks clinging to his very pores…it was for the unusual bronze key that hung from his neck, brushing against his skin. It was his only memento of his past…somehow; he always kept it from being drenched by the tainted blood he so freely indulges in. The notion that it has been touched by hands not his own felt like a betrayal of sorts and he needed the cooling, cleansing reality of water to wash away the acrid burn of disgust filling his entire being.

When he saw the strands near his hand stained at the tips with blood he gave out a feral snarl. In a fit of rage he wrapped his hands around the first thing that brushed by him and turning, slammed it straight into the nearby wall. A sickening thud echoed in the empty room, the sound of breaking bones loud in the eerie silence. For a full minute, he was unaware of the desperate but silent struggle that his prey gave until it too settled down. Blinking, he realized that what he was clutching in his hand was a living being, held some four feet from the ground, pinned to the unyielding wall like some parody of an animal mounted there. As if waking from a trance, he backed away slowly, opening his hand until the poor creature dropped into an exhausted, unconscious heap on the floor…blood dripping from the deep gouges he has given his unfortunate servant.

Without a word, he turned away and approached the pool once more. His thin lips held firm once again, barely giving any emotion away though his eyes were even worse. The look of loathing they mirrored after the hunt froze into an icy and unforgiving stare as if he has already dismissed the event from his mind. Slowly, he slid into the perfumed waters and closed his eyes; unconcerned and uncaring of the bleeding, bruised living doll he had so haphazardly tossed like an offending, broken toy as his mind spun around the same litany of thoughts that haunted his every waking moment.

_He was so tired…so tired…but he will not break his oath…he will hunt and kill until there is no need riding him any longer…but he will not allow innocent blood to taint his lips…never again will he partake of the poison that innocence bears …he was born of the darkness…he will only partake from its endless rivers…soon…he will answer its Siren's call again…once more…soon…the madness would stop and he could rest…just a little while more…just a little while and then he could continue looking…continue his attempt at remembering…_

* * *

 

**EREN**

I am a servant in the household of an undying being that feasted on mortals. You might think that this would be reason enough for me to leave but I suppose that's why I stay. I don't follow reason. I have been a servant in my master's household for many years, and though I was certainly not the first servant he has had, I am certainly one of the few that survived more than a fortnight. Perhaps it was because I learned early on to simply look and observe and serve. It has certainly done me good.

_Tonight, my lord was disturbed…_

That much I recognized as I opened the door for him, locking it behind him automatically. I followed him, silent as a shadow, on the lookout to see where his clothes would fall as he went through his habit of tossing them away as soon as they were stripped from his body…his movements were jerky, so unlike his normal, fluid grace. He cast the clothes off as if the costly material were of little or no importance. I suppose that for someone as wealthy as he, clothes were not a concern. And had this been anyone but my taciturn, fastidious master, I would've made that assumption and considered it fact.

But this was _Master_ …and Master cared for his possessions when he was in his usual state. The mansion is run with military precision. His possessions—both living and otherwise—were treated with exacting precision and efficiency. His casual disregard of his clothes revealed more than just his mental state, it spoke his foul temperament clear as bell.

His footsteps on the marble tiles made no sound as he descended to the catacombs where his rooms where kept. I saw my master pull down the lever that controlled the machinery for the water works and I realized that he meant to take a bath. Quick as I can, I folded his clothes and prepared the bathing pool, pouring a generous amount of the perfumed oils that he preferred on such occasions. For reasons known only to him he refuses to wear the same clothes he wore when he comes from a hunt and always bathed after each successful hunt…as if he was washing away the traces of the blood he spilled. This, by itself, was an anomaly for those who are like my master…few of them go through this mortal ritual…keeping themselves clean simply out of habit…some prefer the taint of their kill to perfume their air.

But not my master. He would bathe twice in a single day...once before he hunts and once more after he comes back. There were days when he would bathe more than twice, mostly if things were not to his liking. There were many times I think he is drawn to the water because he feels free and clean within it. Tonight, however, my master was more than distraught…it was as if he was infuriated by some thought or idea…I paid little mind to his distress thinking that it would soon be washed away along with the icy cold waters of his bath, just like all the other instances before.

But tonight, for the first time after nearly a century of service, I was wrong.

The attack took me by surprise and that is the reason why I even tried to struggle. Self-preservation kicked in, even before I actually realized the gravity of my situation. Gazing at his eyes, I recognized the crazed light and the emptiness in them and ceased my fruitless thrashing. When his eyes took on that blood-red glow of bloodied gold there was no reason or logic behind his gaze—there was only abyss behind them. Grimly I bit my lips as I felt the talons puncture the skin of my neck, the warm trickle of blood seeping out of my wounds and through it all remained still.

The pain was already clouding my mind and the lack of air in lungs would soon numb me from the ache. I prayed that it would come soon. As my eyes finally gave in to the lure of unconsciousness I saw awareness of his deed in his deep eerie golden red eyes before the wall that divided us—Master and slave—finally came crashing down.

* * *

 

_He opened her eyes and felt the dampness cooling her skin…focusing he noted that beneath him was a darkening pool of blood…his…Once more, he shook off the last vestiges of disorientation that always followed an attack. As if being mauled nearly to death was a matter that occurred regularly, he simply pushed himself off the floor…leaning heavily on trembling arms and numbed hands…he managed to finally get to his feet, cursing under his breath as he swayed unsteadily beneath rubbery legs…and after single in-drawn breath proceeded with his duties as if nothing out of the ordinary occurred._

_He realized belatedly that it has been barely a minute since he lost consciousness…but that was not something new…though it was not often that he ends up as his masters medium for releasing his pent up rage, he has learned to take events in his stride…there was really nothing that surprises her anymore…as the blood that soaked his skin dried up, he simply flicked off the crusted flake of blood like as if this was a common thing…_

_Moving quickly, he picked up the sponge from the gilt-edged basin, glad that it was just where he had left it, a few minutes before his master's attack. The wounds on his neck haven't healed yet…but it will…sooner or later…they always do. So often has the attacks occurred over the years that, as if he was prepared in advance, he uncoiled a foot-long strip of cotton—the remains of an old cravat that hung from the tattered shirt he used to wear—and tied it around his neck. The impromptu bandage was kept not for some belated sense of self-preservation but simply to keep the blood from dripping into his bath water. He feared tainting his bath water more than he would ever care for his own physical state. This time, he would tread ever more cautiously. The attack occurred because he got careless and he presumed that he would recognize him after all these years. He would not make the same mistake again._

_If there was any other thing that kept him safe all this years, more than his silence or his diffident ways, it was his ability to judge when to venture close to the beasts grasp. Tonight his master was behaving like an enraged wounded bull. It would be the height of foolishness to assume he would not attack again. This time, he needs to bring his brain along with his quick hands. Even as hardy and sturdy as he was, he seriously doubts that he could stay alive if he decides to take a second swipe at his neck._

* * *

 

Gingerly I approached the marble-tiled roman bath and touched one of the tiny bells that decorated the edge of the elaborate pool. Since I have never spoken even once my Master and I have found ways to deal with this minor problem. The bells would do the speaking for me. One chime means please. Two means yes. There is no need for a negative response. We both know that I would never give it.

From the corner of his eyes, I saw his acquiescence. He sat up from his slackened pose and held out one arm. I dipped the sponge into the perfumed oils once more and started scrubbing his arm, beginning with his shoulders and down to his forearms and wrists. For reasons known only to him, I was forbidden from ever grazing his hands until he expressly orders me to touch them. I worked slowly, efficiently…in absolute silence, like always.

His skin was colder than the statues of gold and ivory that decorated the opulent hall two floors above our heads but that was something I have learned to ignore…submerged as he was in a pool of near boiling hot water, the heat lingers long enough for me not to gasp aloud at the touch of his icy limbs. I have long developed the mindset that enabled me to perform certain tasks with aplomb. I kept in mind that polishing the priceless heirlooms felt no different from touching his naked flesh…Master just moved more than the statues did…

Perhaps it is this iciness of his entire being that drew me…I dare say it's one of the reasons I stay by his side regardless of the sheer amount of harm he inflicted on me. He is indifferent and he is capable of violence but he is never deliberately cruel. He is like a drawn blade—he harms when he is wielded or when he is handled carelessly. I haven't felt the need to contemplate this quite as deeply as such act merited…perhaps if ever I develop the inclination to wonder why I stay beside a monster…perhaps then I would have some good answers…for now, I am simply doing my job.

Finishing his upper limbs and certain that his lower once had been already attended to, I reached beside me, drawing up the jug that held the water collected for rinsing. With a hand that barely trembled I poured the water over his supine form, careful to keep the flow from reaching his beautiful tresses. That would be attended to later.

After a minute Master rose from the waters embrace, the air immediately becoming scented as his body released some of the oils that were used for his bath. Languidly, he stalked towards marble bench that served the purpose of being his bed as his hair was tended. My master was vain…there was no going around that truth. Vanity held no better worshipper than him…and for good reasons.

His form was angelic…there was no other word to use but that…even amongst the most beautiful of their kind my Master stood out like a beacon in the looming darkness…a nighttime star…. glowing like the fires of a thousand sun-struck gems…

His hair was a treasured feature…like raw, unwoven silk…the shimmering strands gleamed even in the gloom of this dungeon…like ebony silk combed into the softest most yielding strands. Obsidian strands that shimmered even within the palest light or deepest gloom. As such Master permitted no one to touch his glorious gift…with the sole exemption of his silent servant…no hands save his and mine was ever laid on the shining mass.

As he stretched out those long, sinewy limbs unto the velvet lined bench, he let his head hang down the side of his marble bench and allowed spring water warmed to perfection to be poured through the thick locks. While one of my hands comb the gleaming mane, I poured jasmine oils onto his scalp, massaging the fragrant concoction all over his head…ensuring that each strand was coated by the precious liquid. I rinsed the oils to remove every speck of dust and the faint tinge of smoke gathered from his night time forays before I rubbed my hands with camellia shampoo, forming thick foam, I lathered the oiled mass to cleanse it…careful not to pull a single strand out of its roots…my movements measured and methodical…having done the same thing for centuries…

As I dried the sweet smelling tresses, I found myself transfixed by the feel of the short locks…they felt familiar and yet unfamiliar and for the space of a breath the fog inside my mind cleared to tell me that his hair hasn't been trimmed for a very long time. The thought and the certainty vanished with my next breath.

Shaking off the strange melancholy that gripped me, I wrapped the damp mass in the velvet towels meant for the task, patting the dripping ends dry as I waited for my master to rise from his impromptu bed so that I could begin clearing up the bath. I held an ebony brushed-silk robe aloft, waiting for him to wrap it around his nubile form. I waited patiently, though mildly wondering why he kept so still. Bowing and assuming that he has something on his mind, I placed the robe in a convenient resting frame and turned to start the task of clearing the remains of his bath. I was just about to empty the roman-tub when he spoke.

"Why did you not run when I attacked you? Why do you stay when I could have easily ended your life…?"

The words were uttered in a calm, neutral tone. It was neither inquisitive nor even slightly curious. It was as if he simply stated a fact. But the demand for a response was there all the same.

Looking up I saw him gazing at me quietly. Though I have lived with him for so long, I could still count in one hand the number of times he actually looked at his lowly servant. I assumed that he wasn't really looking at me but through me and then he spoke… for the first time since I came to be in his service, he directed words to me that were neither an order nor a reprimand. As such I had no knowledge on how to respond to the question he posed.

"Why won't you speak…I know that you can…"


End file.
